My Knight has a gouged mark
On the left side of his breastplate
I polish his armor every night
But the scar still stays;
I had a dream where I
Was being buried alive
My Knight was shoveling soil
Onto my mortal body
On the right side of me
My comrades lay in a line
And on the left under fresher dirt
Lay my Brother in eternal sleep
And someone had placed
My favorite fresh flowers
Onto his fresh grave
They smelled so light and sweet
I would turn my Head to look
But the soil was piling onto my
Neck and I could no longer
But surely they were beautiful
I wondered if someone would also
Leave a few scattered petals for me
Yet my Knight is not one for flowers
And all my other Comrades lay dead
Our graves arranged in a neat row
Through the layers of soil I hear
The retreating footsteps of my Knight
After that it was very quiet
And very peaceful;
My fingers always ached
In the wake of a battle
They are sore from pulling strings
But I keep pulling anyway.